Sherlock Holmes: Ascendancy
Title: Ascendancy: Parts 1 and 2
Characters/Pairing: Blackwood/Holmes, Watson/Holmes, Blackwood/Coward (later chapters)
Rating: NC-17 (that's what I'm going with for this part 1) and R (part 2)
Warnings: Tentacles, non-consensual sexual situations (drugging, after a fashion)
Word Count: 1500 and 1300
Disclaimer: Sadly these characters don't belong to me. Also sadly, this fic earns me no money.
Summary: Movie-verse AU. Follows the movie plot, but with even more slash. Oh, and Blackwood has tentacles. Reposted from the kinkmeme and written in response to a request for tentacled Blackwood ravishing Holmes in the cell scene... and later.
Author's note: Yep. More tentacles. And yes, another WIP that's been on hiatus too long. I'm blaming Coward for that.
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Part 1
Lord Blackwood watched the guard, one whose complicity and loyalty had come quite cheaply, lead a dazed and stumbling Sherlock Holmes away from his cell with mixed feelings. He ought to feel completely satisfied with the encounter. After all, it had achieved its intended aim: Blackwood's message would be indelibly impressed upon the detective's mind and he would be far too confused to present any threat to the lord's future schemes.
Yes, the only opponent Blackwood had any cause to fear would be mentally and emotionally hobbled in any attempt to stop the great wheels that were about to be set in motion. And yet...
"Guard!" he snapped at the man whose job it was to make sure Holmes had somewhat recovered his faculties before he returned to the waiting officials. The man had paused at the entrance of the empty cell he was to use for righting the detective's clothing and applying a restorative. His eyes, reflecting the memory of the scene he had just witnessed, were lingering on the pale skin revealed by Holmes' open collar and a hand was reaching toward a hip exposed by the disarray of his trousers. "Your job is to make him fit to be seen. If I find you have touched him in any way..." Blackwood let his words trail away menacingly. The guard, sensing the genuine anger behind the words, nodded jerkily and resumed his appointed task.
Genuine anger. Blackwood frowned and crossed his arms as he resumed his seat on the narrow prison cot. That flash of possessive rage he had felt when the guard had started to lay a hand on Holmes... That was not part of the plan.
With a groan, Blackwood slid back further into the shadows of his cell and released his long, sinuous appendages from their habitual imprisonment. Ah, the redundancies of Victorian clothing were actually a blessing when it came to concealing his true nature. He enjoyed the superiority that came from knowing what others did not -- from hiding a secret before their very eyes. Yet, more than that, he loved the moments when he could move them freely. Loved it still more when he could use them as he just had.
Blackwood eyed his tentacles where he held them curled before his eyes, filled with an appreciation of those strong, flexible appendages -- an appreciation that had come when the lord had learned of the awesome thrill of real power. There were four of them: two longer, thicker ones that he usually held flattened against his legs and two smaller, smoother ones that he kept curled against his back. They were all perfect and had once again served him well.
He groaned again as the scene of moments ago replayed itself in his mind's eye. He brought the larger left tentacle's tip to his nose, breathing in the lingering scent of Sherlock Holmes as his hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. He freed an erection that became more painful by the moment as he recalled how that appendage had wrapped halfway around Holmes' waist, pinning him back against the bars, before snaking up the detective's torso so that the tip might caress the man's vulnerable throat. It was unfortunate that Blackwood had been unable to see the man's face at that first, sudden and shocking contact. Still, he had felt Holmes' shudder of surprise vibrate through the tentacle and through the prison bars to his own body. And the detective's astonished gasp as the tip of that tentacle tugged the neck of his shirt loose and slipped inside to glide across his chest: everything the lord could have wished.
He had taken advantage of that shocked opening of Holmes' mouth to push the tip of his smaller right tentacle inside. The slender appendage had effectively muffled any cries the man might have made... until the powerful, but sadly short-lasting, hypnotic drug which that tentacle secreted could take effect.
Lord Blackwood brought that tentacle to his own mouth. Gently he licked it, lapping up the hints of drug and Holmes' saliva that remained there. He recalled how, as the detective had fallen under the hypnotic's influence, Holmes had sucked on that tentacle -- the most sensitive of them -- even as he had hummed soft moans around it as the others teased and caressed his entire body.
Without consciously willing it, Blackwood's smaller left tentacle went to his leaking cock and wrapped around it, stroking up and down its hard length. He hummed his own moan of pleasure as the slick, pleasure-enhancing fluid this tentacle secreted coated his erection, smoothing the way, just as it had done for Holmes' tight entrance.
Blackwood closed his eyes to bring memory closer. Apart from his smaller right tentacle, his extra appendages were capable of little sensation beyond detection of heat or cold and of contact. Holmes' passage had been wonderfully hot and tight -- even for the small tentacle. Even with the lubricating fluid and the action of the drug, Holmes had responded initially with shock and pain to that violation.
A virgin, undoubtedly. The knowledge had caused unwonted animal desire to course through Blackwood -- a desire to mark, to dominate, to claim. He repeated the low savage growl he had made then and his larger right tentacle joined the smaller on his cock... Just as he had brought it to Holmes' moments ago.
He had not intended it to go that far. His plan had been to make the great detective susceptible to suggestion and perhaps toy with him a bit. Like peeling away the layers of a proper Victorian woman's dress, he had wanted to see what might be found under Holmes' mask of pride and stoicism.
Lovely surrender. It had been headier for Blackwood than his own drug. After using his hands to unfasten the man's trousers, he had not dared to touch him with his sensitive fingertips. To do so, when the bars and the situation would not allow him to plunge his cock into the writhing form before him, would have been torture. Instead, he had ravished Holmes with all four of his tentacles, relishing in the heat, the soft muffled moans, and the tantalizing brush of his own appendage against his groin every time the other man's hips had rocked back against the bars. Lost completely to the drug and the erotic pleasure it enhanced, Holmes had dropped his pipe and clutched the tentacle that held him against the bars, gripping it like a lifeline as his hips rocked lasciviously and his mouth worked feverishly on the appendage invading it.
With a hoarse gasp, Blackwood came just as he remembered Holmes' release, his ejaculate staining the floor of his cell as Holmes' still did the floor outside. He opened his eyes and gazed at one, then the other, panting in the aftermath of his release.
"I need you," he had breathed to Holmes as the detective went slack, gasping for breath, in the embrace of his tentacles. He had not planned to say that, any more than he had intended for such heat to underlie his words. However, it would not hurt his ultimate aims. The words and their expression could only serve to confuse the detective, per Blackwood's plan.
No. What disturbed the lord now was that, at that moment and now still, he had meant those words on some level. He needed to tear down all that pride, arrogance, and disdain with which Holmes had greeted him, first in the crypt, then here. He needed to tear it down and replace it with fear of and submission to himself.
It will be glorious. The thought stirred his spent cock. In time, he promised himself. His body craved that domination even as his will desired control over all England.
"What am I doing here?" he heard Holmes asking from the other cell.
"You said you needed to sit down after talking to Lord Blackwood, sir. I think he cast a spell on you," the guard answered as instructed.
"Such nonsense! I must be over tired." He mumbled something after that.
"Tentacles, sir!?"
"I have had a fainting spell, no doubt. I thank you for your attempts to save my dignity, my good man. Now, let us leave Blackwood to his fate."
Blackwood watched Holmes leave the cell block without a look back. The guard followed with a knowing wink and leer in the direction of his cell.
"What did he want?" asked that useless Yard inspector.
"I'm not sure," Holmes replied, genuinely bemused. He added, in a more confident tone, "But I don't think you're needed, Father -- not for this one."
No, indeed. I'm not going anywhere yet. Blackwood smiled to himself as he once more concealed his tentacles and put his own clothing to rights. And you will be sure of what I want soon enough, Sherlock Holmes.
Once London, and through it, the Empire, was bowed before him, Lord Blackwood would bring the great detective to his knees.
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*The secretions were also suggested in the prompt.
Part 2
"Holmes!" The shout of his name and Watson's hand jostling his shoulder came simultaneously. Holmes’ eyes snapped back into focus and turned to his companion. From the doctor's expression and tone of voice, it was clear he had called out more than once.
"Ah, there you are Watson." The detective tried to put a confident smile on his face and into his voice. He was sure, however, that only Watson's preoccupation rendered them believable.
"There I am? Holmes, where have you been? It's nearly time."
"I..." He looked around, surprised to find himself outside. He was leaning against the outside wall of the prison that currently -- but not for much longer -- housed Lord Blackwood. His pipe was in hand, the bowl smoking, but the contents mostly ash. "I stepped out for a breath of fresh air?" Holmes' tone rose at the end, making it a question. He vaguely recalled leaving the cells to return to the upper levels of the prison. All around him, people had moved and talked and laughed and repeated the name Blackwood until Holmes' head had positively spun. "Yes," he murmured, closing his eyes and replaying in his mind his near dash outside. "Fresh air and quiet."
"Quiet? Holmes are you-- are you quite all right?" The tone of Watson's voice changed in an instant and his hand went swiftly to his friend's brow. Holmes opened his eyes to look into the blue ones now so close to his own. They were narrowed in concentration and there was a small wrinkle of worry above and between them. "Do you feel feverish?"
"I am merely tired Watson, and confused."
"Confused? By an execution?"
"By Blac-- by the condemned man's last words." Why had he avoided Blackwood's name? "I think the man may be completely insane."
"You mean, beyond all that 'black magic and murdering girls' business?" Watson raised a curious eyebrow, but the concerned expression stayed on his face.
"The man... made absolutely no sense down there. Do you think they might allow us to examine his brain after his execution?"
"Holmes!?" They finally both sounded more like their usual selves. "Honestly... Anyway, are you coming in now? Or were you planning to wander in just as they cover his head?"
"The latter would by far be the better option -- his is not a face I -- one wishes to see." The unwonted sincerity in his own words startled Holmes. Surely, I am not afraid of the likes of Blackwood.
Still... Ever since he had left the cells behind, the sound -- no, the very thought -- of Lord Blackwood's name caused a flutter in the pit of Holmes' stomach. Fear, he reluctantly identified one of the emotions there. The other? He avoided naming it all together.
"I need you."
"What?" Holmes asked, looking around for the source of the desperate, heated whisper.
"Holmes, I didn't say anything." The worried frown returned to Watson's face. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes," he was quite sure he was not all right. "I think, though... I'd better go home."
"I think you're right."
"Pray give my regards to the departed," Holmes said cheerfully as he pushed away from the wall and emptied his pipe.
"Gladly," The doctor's mouth smiled at last, but it did not reach his eyes. "You, have a proper meal and a night of solid sleep."
"Yes, yes," he waved his hand dismissively. "Good day, mother hen!"
"Good day, old cock."
Holmes returned to Baker Street in the same daze in which he had left the cells. He now sat in his chair, with his violin in hand, striving to reconstruct the events of the day as he played random chords and melodies on his violin.
His arrival at Blackwood's cell, the writing and symbols covering the walls, the hiss of the man's voice as he read, the pride filling every line of his frame and plane of his face... All were quite clear in Holmes' memory. He recalled remarking on the decor and obliquely questioning the lord's sloppiness in the crypts... Blackwood had replied with some nonsense about unearthly powers at work. Holmes had flippantly suggested that the man's brain might make an interesting specimen of deformity as he had turned to lean back against the bars and...
There was nothing clear after that.
Heat... Euphoria... Hot, whispered words of obscure meaning... The wide eyes of the one guard brave enough to come remotely near the cell... And...!
Holmes' thoughts froze, unable or unwilling to continue. His attention was then caught by the sound of his own violin. The nameless, tuneless melody that vibrated from it was filled with sensual tremolos and low, throbbing chords. Want, the strings spoke, need.
His body now froze as well, momentarily. Disturbed, he lowered the instrument and, with hands that trembled inexplicably, placed it and his bow on the side table.
Think, Sherlock Holmes! Remember what you observed and deduce from that what you did not. He closed his eyes and cast his mind back again to the moment he had leaned against the bars.
"Then you too, might serve a greater purpose."
His own words came back to him through the fog in his memories. Anger. He had masked it, but Blackwood's dismissal of the murdered girls had made Holmes angry. He had prepared his pipe then, hoping the tobacco might calm him.
And then?
"Holmes, you must widen your gaze," Blackwood had said, the breath of his words steaming against Holmes' ear. The detective shivered as he recalled.
And then?
...
"You and I are bound on a journey that will split the very fabric of nature."
The seductive whisper was followed by warm hands caressing Holmes' throat before sliding down to brush his breastbone. When his shirt had opened, he knew not. An arm was now holding him back against the bars as another hand slid into his trousers, stroking heat into his abdomen.
"Holmes." His own name, an enticing breath against his ear, followed by a moist ghosting of lips against it. There were too many hands... Holding him, stroking him, filling him... Drawing from deep within him an unknown fire.
"I need you."
With a moan and a rock of his hips, he sucked harder on the tentacle in his mouth.
Tentacle! Holmes awoke with a start, eyes snapping open.
What was that? He put a shaking hand to his mouth, the other pressing against the fluttery heat in his abdomen. "What in bloody hell was that?" His voice was as unsteady as his hands.
Erotic fantasies about a murderer who I've just sent to his death? Swiftly, the fire in him changed to illness. It was disgusting. It was beyond reprehensible that he should feel for a criminal what he had long denied himself with--
No. Whatever drugs he had mixed with his alcohol last night had, combined with punches to his head and a lack of proper sleep, clearly impaired him utterly.
There was no other logical explanation for why he should imagine Lord Blackwood with tentacles. No other possible cause for him to visualize engaging in--
Holmes jumped to his feet and moved to the cabinet where the brandy was kept. He half-filled a glass and downed the contents in one gulp. Then he refilled it.
Watson is right -- I need sleep, he decided as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Deep, dreamless sleep.
With that, he drank down his second glass of brandy. He then filled it a third time and took it over to the settee.
He settled himself down and sipped his drink. He would think of that new composition, play it in his mind until he fell into the dark, silent arms of Morpheus.
Tomorrow, all will no doubt return to interminably boring normal... It was his last thought as he dozed off, glass still in hand and the trappings of science and logic all around him.
~ continued~
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